


Sole

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Ficlet, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: After a difficult thrust into Spira, Tidus unwinds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Masturbation” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo). Mild AU because I’m aging Tidus up to 18.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The only thing truly familiar here is _water_ : the lifeblood of his favourite game. Wakka’s clearly doing his best to be friendly, but the others look at him strangely whenever he opens his mouth, and eventually Tidus just needs a moment to digest it all. He steals out of the village, out from under Wakka’s watchful eye—he’s eighteen now and needs a friend, not a babysitter—and back down to the beach. The sand’s a gorgeous pearly white, the water clear enough to reflect the evening sky. At least he couldn’t have found a more picturesque place to wash ashore.

A short swim, and he finds just what he needs—an alcove tucked around the bend where the natives here won’t see him. He settles only halfway up the sand, still submerged to his waist, and lies down to stare up at the perfect sky. It’s completely clear, every last emerging star shining at its full glory—there are hardly any lights below to compete with them. It’s a strange world, or maybe a strange time, but at least the water’s warm and he isn’t hungry anymore. He tells himself he’ll survive.

It sucks already, and it’s more jarring than a kick to the head, but he’s a star of his own, and he’ll make it. At least Wakka seems to like him. He won’t be entirely alone, even though, despite all his fans, he’d been prepared to live his entire adulthood that way. Back home, where he had a contract with the Abes and enough fame to warrant fortune, he could’ve taken care of all his needs.

Here, he can only take care of a basic few, and now that he’s alone again in what seems like a relatively safe area, it’s time to exercise his favourite. He lifts his right hand out of the water, gaze still lost in the cloudless evening, and brings the heel of his hand to his teeth so he can tug the glove away. Sometimes he enjoys the brusque, leathery texture, but tonight he just needs _skin on skin_ , even if it’s his own. 

His neck’s still sore from the first fall. He goes there first, after dragging the glove aside to deposit in the sand. He stretches his fingers out to encase his throat, gently rub down the side, and massage the back, catching blond strands here and there. He straightens his necklace before he finishes, then runs down the chain to smooth the pendant out across his chest, square beneath his collarbone. The cut of his coat, which barely covers his shoulders and the top of his back, highlights it well. He picked this outfit meticulously for what should’ve been tonight’s game—he would’ve looked spectacular on the screens.

At least, if he had to get stranded on this odd journey, he’ll do it in his best clothes. He slips his fingertips below the left side while he thinks, softly massaging his taut abs and the upper arc of his biceps. He was never as well built as his old man, but he’s getting there, _will be better_. Better in all ways. He shuts his eyes and tries not to go there, not this time. He has enough to deal with. He focuses, instead, on the slow lap of the water around his waist, slicking his shorts against him. They cling to his thighs, and the water licks up the bottoms where it can, trying to reach higher. He’s always liked that feeling. 

He lowers his hand down to one nipple and pinches at the bud already hardening, stimulated by the water’s promise. He gives it a little tug and an almost painful twist, gritting his teeth, while his other hand finally moves. It leaves the indent it’s made in the sand to press against his crotch, the stiffness of his metal glove adding a thrilling spark of pressure. He pushes against his trapped cock while he pulls at his nipple, then gives it a final tweak and migrates to the other one. Sometimes he imagine these hands belong to other people—particularly attractive fans he saw in the stands of his game, or whoever last asked for his autograph on the street. His mind flickers to Wakka, quickly dismisses that and skims the other Besaid Aurochs, but none peak his interest, and he inevitably comes back to himself. Just his own hands. He wants to be independent anyway. He doesn’t need anyone else to give him pleasure.

He palms his way down his six-pack as if to remind himself: he looks _damn good_. He’s watched himself naked in the mirror enough to know. He feels even better. He squirms his way down the front of his black coverall, under the hem of his shorts, fingers raking through the smattering of blond tufts before his cock. His shaft is still mostly dry, but Tidus makes a point of slithering his arm down each pant leg to hold them open, letting the water rush in. It’s that stimulation that first makes him twitch. By the time he comes back to encircle the shaft, he’s fully erect, thick and warm in his own palm. Tidus gives himself a quick squeeze and groans, having to bite his lip to stifle it. He should’ve done _this_ when he first woke up in those ruins, cold to the bone, even if it would’ve made him vulnerable when the Al Bhed found him. Their leader was cute. Maybe she would’ve captured him for other uses than deep-sea diving, and it probably would’ve been more fun. He often thought that if Blitzball didn’t work out—which of course it would—he could do just fine selling this athlete’s body.

He pumps himself to that new avenue of daydreams; being a _professional_ in Zanarkand, known for a different kind of skill, then to the fantasy of being a prisoner kept around just to please his captors. They probably wouldn’t have let him wander free on that boat then, would’ve tied him up to the mast, and one or the other or maybe all three would’ve come over to unfasten his coverall and cut the shorts off his legs. Maybe they’d push him down and ride his cock, one by one shoving onto him and telling him how big he is, how well he could fill anyone up, how nice he is to look at. Or maybe they would’ve pushed him down to his knees and used his mouth, and that might not have been as fun at first, but Tidus would get the hang of it in no time, he’s sure, and have them eating out of the palm of his hand by the time the boat ever found land...

A sudden moan punctures the wild images, and he lifts the still-gloved hand up to cover his mouth—the last thing he needs is the Aurochs finding him and an entire team wanting him at once. Maybe just Wakka, if he needed the leverage, he could handle, but not an entire _team_ , although that was another fantasy, back when he was safely at home and didn’t _only_ have his body to bargain with. He twists his hand as he slides up and down his rock-hard shaft, slick with water, occasionally pausing to play with his foreskin and press his thumb against his slit—he’s humping his fist now, hips grinding back into the sand. He knows just what he likes, having done this far more than enough, and he can take himself to the edge so quickly, even though he would’ve liked to take his time. He has no idea how long he’ll be here. Might as well make the most of it. And there’s nothing better to waste his time on than jerking himself off in the water.

It doesn’t take much longer. He’s worked himself up, and now he’s in the rhythm of it, fucking his hand to a steady beat, his mind racing through images of his own body bent to submission or paid to _dominate_ , either way _used_ to get him through this. He moans a thick mantra against his knuckles, then has to burry a scream when he comes, his cock spurting up against the fabric. He keeps stroking his cock through it, his orgasm whitening his vision. His body feels weightless, like it does when it’s just floating. He’s dizzy with the height of it, warm and tingling. He pumps himself out until there’s nothing left, and the water’s dispersing his sticky mess all down his thighs. 

He stops when he’s empty. His hand stays in his shorts for a few more seconds while he gets his bearings. When he opens his eyes again, he’s surprised to see how dark it’s gotten. The stars reflecting off the water’s surface is his favourite kind of glow. 

There’s a little while after that where he continues to laze about the beach, letting his breathing steady out and the water lick the evidence away. 

Eventually, he gets up and wanders back to see what else he can do.


End file.
